Oats on the Pinhoti: Day 9

Note: This article was originally published on The Trek and can be found at the link here. Oats’ packing list for the Pinhoti Trail can be found on Build A Pack at the link here.

Day 9, Sunday

This morning, I was on trail at least an hour earlier than yesterday. It was a day of settling in to the trail sans Thru Dog, and I intended to savor it.

Good timing too, because this ladder would’ve been difficult to navigate with a pup in tow.

There was a couple miles where the trail followed the river and it was blissfully flat, but not for long enough a stretch that my body got tired of the repetitiveness. By 4:30 pm, I’d booked it 21 miles without really noticing.



At one point along the river, I encountered my first human in over 24 hours. He was wearing dark camo, moved slowly, and donned binoculars, which he fidgited with every couple seconds. I spotted him further down the trail, and watched him look intently in the distance for some time as I approached. “Turkey scouting,” he said proudly, when I asked. “Season starts on Tuesday. You seen any around?”

“Not yet today,” I said. “But I hear them every morning and evening. They’re definitely out there,” I said, reassuringly.



It wasn’t 2 hours and a couple miles later that I did see some turkeys. But they saw me first.

WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP

One moment I was strolling through the quiet forest, the next it sounded like a train was next to me rumbling through the trees, as 6 large turkeys decided to abandon ship and flap away at full speed down the ridge. I jumped out of my skin, and after a good laugh of relief decided it was time for a snack break right then and there. I plopped my butt down, drew my knees up in front of me, and fished out my morning poptarts. After such a scare, I earned them.



Over the course of the day, I skirted the edge of 2 different lakes. The pollen accumulation was impressive to say the least. The barely noticeable flow of the water had gathered it in piles of yellow, clumpy stagnancy along the edges of the lake. There was some hunting equipment around- a kayak here, a blind there -but I didn’t see a soul after the turkey hunter I encountered that morning.



Midday I encountered something (besides the turkeys) that was rather unexpected. Through the trees and past a small graveyard with headstones so worn half of them were unintelligible, sat a large, one-room church at the end of a forest service road. After a little (sign) sleuthing, I learned the Shoal Creek Baptist Church was built by white pioneer settlers in 1842 and was still maintained by their descendants to this day.

I took my pack off as I recognized the opportunity to explore, grabbed my camera, and slowly approached the structure. I glanced at the gravestones, but it wasn’t until I was leaving that I examined them closer. Unlike most small cemeteries I’ve encountered in the south, there was a large bulge of earth in between each headstone and what I can only assume was a footstone. I assume their purpose was to keep folks from walking on and disrespecting the dead. It was off-putting at first (ya know, human response to death and all) but I sat with the feeling as I read what I could on the eroded stones, artificial flowers still adorning some of the “more recent” graves.



I slowly approached the old, wooden church. I’ve always had an appreciation for old buildings, antiques, and things from the past that folks cared about enough about to keep through time. Though I’m not religious, I do have a curious spiritual side and am generally open to any vibes of a non-malicious nature. The first door I approached had a small silver padlock secured around a latch on the door. After a slow walk around the old, wooden church, I found a door facing the gravel road, opposite of the direction I approached from. It was unlocked. I let myself in.



I spent a long, lovely, quiet moment alone in the church. The air was stale, and it became remarkably darker when I closed the door behind me. I stood there, unmoving, as I blinked my surroundings into view. The pews were made of soft, heavy, old, wood that reminded me of the Basilica of St. Lawrence, where I served as an altar server growing up. There was a small podium near the front with a damaged Bible open to John 3:16. I ran my fingertips along the pages and imagined the place full of people and life. It was special to have all to myself, here, alone in the middle of the woods.



After moving on I encountered Laurel Shelter midday and was able to take advantage of the roof for the perfect amount of time as an afternoon rain storm moved through. I still got caught in a couple showers throughout the day, but it was warm enough not to need a layer and I’d made a better choice than yesterday and packed my puffy in my pack this time. Also, my umbrella rocks. Ultralighters would call it a luxury item, and boy it sure does feel luxurious when I have dry hands to eat and navigate no matter how long the rain comes down.



Eventually, I walked over a long, grassy landbridge closing in on my shelter for the night. The landbridge dammed a lake on one side, and a gushing river exploded out of a large stone opening on out the other end. I vowed to come back and really appreciate the location; but first, I wanted to take my shoes off.

I don’t write gear review often, but when I do, I mean what I say. These camp shoes from Shamma Sandals and XOTOES socks from XOSKIN rock my world.


That done, empty bottles in hand, I donned my delightful camp shoes and hobbled back up the trail to enjoy the evening with a view. When I reached the middle of the landbridge, I stretched thoroughly and sang a couple songs, before wondering if the security camera set up to monitor the dam had audio capabilities. Probably not, right? Worst case scenario some guy was getting a soulful rendition of This Must Be the Place by the Talking Heads.



I even felt enough whimsy to wish on one of the many fuzzy dandelions that surrounded me. The voice of my second-grade assistant teacher sounded off in my head, as it always does when I consider wishing on a dandelion. “Every time you blow on one of those, the seeds end up in Mrs. Herrera’s yard. I have more weeds than blades of grass!” I believed her, would occasionally hold back in hopes of reducing the weeds Mrs. Herrera would face.



Back at the shelter, the 3rd I’d encountered on the Pinhoti Trail so far, I realized something. In addition to a log book, every shelter had a Bible. Having experienced my fair share of religious trauma, I felt myself huff and, like I do with everything I’m not a huge fan of but isn’t hurting anyone, proceeded to ignore it and sign the shelter log.



It wasn’t long after watching the sun set through the trees and over the horizon that I fell soundly asleep yet again to the sounds of turkeys and surrounded by blinking fireflies.